Jack 1939

by Francine Mathews

  “Perhaps you should go, Mr. Kennedy. We wouldn’t want another unpleasant . . . incident. On your first day in your father’s service. You’ve done enough damage already.”

  They read the papers. They knew about the fight, of course. They’d like him to think they knew everything.

  “Give me his name, goddamn you.”

  “Jack.” Dobler slipped an arm casually around his shoulders, turned him toward the door. “You’re under some sort of misapprehension, I’m afraid. Too much champagne at the club last night, yes? I’m sorry to hear your sister was . . . bothered, but I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, and I think my colleague is right. It’s best that you leave. Sleep it off, hmm? Clear your head?”

  “If I see him again,” Jack muttered for Dobler’s ears alone, “I go to the police. If he touches her, I’ll kill him myself. Understand?”

  “But of course!” Dobler cried. “I’ll look forward to it, with pleasure!” He was smiling as he reached for the door, but Jack saw the strain in his eyes. Maybe he’d called the German’s bluff. Maybe the Spider would disappear.

  It was only when he reached Henry Poole & Company, in Savile Row, that he found the folded paper Willi had slipped into his pocket.

  Rules, it said. Seven o’clock.

  SIXTEEN. STRATEGIES AND REINFORCEMENTS

  “HOOVER’S PUT A NAME to that corpse,” Sam Schwartz said to the President. “He sent this over.” He handed Roosevelt a manila envelope with Urgent stamped on it.

  Roosevelt raised an eyebrow. “Is Ed avoiding me, Sam? Did my little barb about friends shoot home?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir.”

  “But you can think.” His spatulate fingers fumbled with the red string sealing the buff-colored flap.

  “Mr. Hoover may be devoting his time to legitimate business, sir. Now that Mr. Kennedy’s back in London.”

  Roosevelt peered into the envelope and withdrew a sheaf of paper. “Good Lord. Ed has typed up everything there is to know about this poor man. Did you find any of his bugs, by the way?”

  Schwartz’s brown eyes shifted to his. His expression was carefully wooden. “Only one, sir. A wiretap on a telephone.”

  “Clever Edgar! In this office, I suppose?”

  “No, sir. Next to Miss LeHand’s bed.”

  The air in the room seemed to grow heavier. Roosevelt’s fingers tightened on the arms of his wheelchair. Schwartz knew just how often he was with Missy. Neither of them had to discuss it. The damn phone probably had some kind of device that recorded pillow talk as well as Missy’s calls. All of it set down in one of Hoover’s secret files. The man wanted an iron grip on Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s neck.

  “How offensive,” he said at last. “And how consummately stupid.”

  “You could have him arrested. Section 605 of the 1934 Federal Communications Act explicitly states that no person not being authorized by the sender shall intercept any communication and divulge or publish the existence, contents, substance, purpose, effect, or meaning of such intercepted communications—”

  “—to any person,” Roosevelt finished. “Particularly Nazi agents.”

  What Schwartz did not know, the President reflected, was that he had played both sides of Section 605 himself, with Hoover as willing accomplice. Nearly three years ago he’d summoned the FBI director to the White House for a private chat about the investigation of “subversives,” particularly Fascists and Communists. Ever since the American Liberty League had reared its ugly head, he’d wanted somebody monitoring political threats. He’d never have learned about Göring’s cash network otherwise. He’d chosen not to ask how Hoover got his information.

  “If I know Edgar,” he said, “there will be no way in hell to link that wiretap to his shop. We’ll never prove it in court. Gist the goddamn report he sent over, Sam.”

  Schwartz took the sheaf of paper. Roosevelt was aware of the keenness of his bodyguard’s mind, the acuity of his focus. No hint of embarrassment about the distressing news he’d just conveyed. Schwartz was a professional, and his detachment was reassuring.

  “Charles Atwater,” he recited. “Manhattan attorney with a wife and two kids in Pelham. Thirty-four years old. Yale graduate. Reported missing by a business associate in London when he failed to arrive there March second. Embarked as a passenger on the Queen Mary—the February twenty-fourth sailing—and his Tourist Class ticket was stamped that day in New York. Bureau thinks he was knifed and thrown off the ship before it passed Ellis Island.”

  “Does the fellow have ties to Nazi Germany?”

  Schwartz thumbed through the sheaf of paper. “Hoover’s boys can’t find any. None to Göring’s cash network, either.”

  “In short, the man was killed for no reason.”

  “Everybody’s killed for something.” Schwartz glanced up. “This is odd, sir. A Charles Atwater also disembarked at Southampton.”

  “Did he, indeed?”

  “But the wife in Pelham has positively identified the corpse as her husband.”

  “How tragic for her,” Roosevelt murmured. “This Spider fellow is very clever, Sam. Killed his man, tossed him overboard, and proceeded to travel to London in style as Atwater himself. He must look rather like the dead man—or close enough to survive passport inspection.”

  “Hoover’s asked Scotland Yard to keep an eye out for Atwater’s papers.”

  “Which our man will have tossed by now, of course. Someone else will have to die, if the White Spider needs to leave England.” He met Sam’s watchful eyes. “Let’s hope it’s not young Jack.”

  “He wouldn’t kill the ambassador’s son for his passport.”

  “He might do it for attention. Remember the mark cut into his victims’ flesh. The signature. He likes attention.” Roosevelt was silent an instant, thinking. “It’s no coincidence this killer embarked on the Queen Mary. Hoover says he thinks the Nazis know the Bureau is on to their network—which is his way of telling me there’s a Bureau leak, somewhere. And I’m beginning to think the leak extends to my office. The Spider knows I’ve recruited Jack. He intended to make contact with him on that ship.”

  “It’s possible, sir.”

  “Then I’ve put the boy in considerably more danger than I meant to.” His mouth set in a hard line. “Get me Wild Bill, Sam. We need to powwow. We need strategies and reinforcements.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wild Bill was General William J. Donovan, a retired war hero and Wall Street financier. He and Roosevelt were at opposite ends of the social and political spectrum—Donovan was Irish Catholic like J. P. Kennedy, a Republican who’d campaigned against FDR—but Wild Bill’s friends were varied and useful. He knew people in British Intelligence. And the President was willing to use them.

  “Tell me, Sam,” Roosevelt was saying. “If nobody but Missy and my Secret Service detail knew about that meeting with Jack Kennedy beneath the Waldorf, how did the Nazis find out? We can’t blame the State department this time.”

  Schwartz frowned. “Mr. President—I can vouch for myself and my men. None of us have been talking to German agents.”

  “But one of you might have talked to Ed Hoover, perhaps?”

  “Not even Hoover’s dough can buy him love, sir. The guy wants our jobs,” Schwartz retorted contemptuously. “And Miss LeHand—”

  “—Was tucked up in bed with Dashiell Hammett. Just out of curiosity, Sam, how much dough has Edgar offered you boys?”

  “Never enough.”

  “Then he’s getting his news the old-fashioned way.”

  “Eavesdropping? On the President of the United States?” Schwartz reddened. “That’s treason.”

  “He’ll make us prove it.” Roosevelt flashed his shark’s grin. “Let me think about Edgar, Sam. And in the meantime—check the Pullman
for a wiretap. Perhaps we can use it to hang him.”

  SEVENTEEN. RULES

  NOBODY AT PRINCE’S GATE OBJECTED when Jack said he was dining out again—with Rose away, Joe Kennedy was firmly pursuing other pleasures; and with Joe Jr. in Spain, Kick was triple-booked each evening. She moved constantly in a crowd of well-born Brits who did little besides dress, dance, and drink. The fear that a devastating war loomed made the partying more obsessive and extreme.

  Jack invaded his sister’s bedroom late that afternoon while she dressed for Debo Mitford’s. Debo was one of Baron Redesdale’s daughters; they lived around the corner from Prince’s Gate. Kick liked her because she was in love with Billy’s brother, Andrew, and because she was saner than any of her sisters. One of the Mitford girls was a Communist, and had eloped to join the Spanish Civil War cause; another had divorced her first husband to marry the British Fascist leader Oswald Mosley. A third sister—Unity Mitford—was rumored to be secretly engaged to Adolf Hitler, whom she adored. She could frequently be found taking tea with him in Berlin. Jack figured the Mitfords were fanatics and fanatics were dangerous; he stayed away from all of them except Debo.

  “Promise me something,” he said as he leaned over Kick’s chair.

  “Anything—if you’ll fasten my pearls.”

  She handed him the necklace and he fumbled with the catch. Beneath the heavy fall of her auburn hair, which she always wore down in a shoulder-grazing bob, her neck felt childish and vulnerable.

  “Don’t run off alone with Billy tonight.”

  “Gosh, kid—you sound like Mother.” She swiveled in her seat and offered a saintly expression. “I’m not one of those girls you invite up to Harvard. I’m saving it for marriage.”

  “What do you know about my girls?” he demanded.

  “Joe told me everything.” She turned back to the mirror, adjusting the pearls. “Apparently you’ve left him holding the baby one too many times. He says you’ve got so many girls on the string, you can’t remember their names—so you call them all kid just to be safe. Joe says you drop invitations all over the East Coast, and then promptly forget about them. He’s had to meet girls’ trains, find hotel rooms, and take them dancing more weekends than he can count. While you’re off hooking other fish to fry.”

  “At least he’s had a few dates,” Jack protested. “Besides, that was years ago. Before Joe graduated. I’ve reformed since then.”

  “Frances Ann?” she suggested knowledgeably.

  He felt his stomach knot. “Frances Ann. She was the one, Kick. Until she turned me down flat right before I left New York.”

  Kick’s mouth formed a surprised O in the mirror.

  “I’m too young to get married,” he said hurriedly. “And her parents don’t like Catholics.”

  “Jack—” Kick grabbed his hand with both of hers and gripped it tightly. “Is that why you don’t want me disappearing with Billy? Because his parents don’t like Catholics?”

  “It’s one reason.”

  Her eyes were too bright, suddenly. “I didn’t know you’d proposed. I could slap Frances Ann silly. You’re worth ten of her.”

  “I like to think I’m worth a hundred, myself,” he said awkwardly. “But promise me, Kick. Stay with your friends. This town’s gotten rough. And there’s safety in numbers.”

  She studied him coolly. “This is about the fight last night at the 400. Isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “That man was just a cad. I’ve run into his kind before.”

  Her insouciance troubled him. “What did he say to you?”

  “Before you slugged him, you mean? That I had beautiful breasts.” She looked slightly nauseated. “That—that he’d like to—touch them—”

  “—So you slapped him silly,” Jack concluded. “Good girl. But stay with Debo and Andrew tonight, Kick. Just to make your big brother happy.”

  “I will, Jack,” she said clearly.

  He kissed her cheek and left her.

  * * *

  RULES WAS THE OLDEST RESTAURANT in London. It sat in Maiden Lane, and its privacy and discretion were legendary.

  Jack arrived at five minutes past seven. Dobler was nowhere in sight. A waiter led him to a banquette in an alcove. He ordered a glass of Bourbon on the rocks and glanced at his watch for the next eighteen minutes. Then he paid for the drink and left.

  It was dark when he stepped out into Maiden Lane, gas lights burning low in their painted lanterns. A black London cab pulled up alongside him. The rear door swung open.

  “Good evening, Jack.”

  “Evening, Willi,” he said.

  “A thousand pardons for keeping you waiting. Would you get into the car, please?”

  There was another man seated in the shadows of the cab. Jack figured getting in was a mistake; they weren’t far from the Thames. As good a place as any to dump a body.

  “I’ll walk back, thanks,” he said.

  The cab rolled alongside him.

  “Jack,” Dobler said patiently, “I must talk to you, and I don’t wish to be seen. Dinner is impossible but a cab ride is not. I’ve brought a friend from the British Foreign Office to vouch for me. You know his name, I think. Denys Playfair.”

  Playfair. Diana’s husband.

  Jack stopped short. So did the cab.

  “Caution is all very well in its way,” Playfair drawled from the depths of the car, “but I’m beginning to find you a crashing bore.”

  He got in.

  * * *

  “DENYS PLAYFAIR, JACK KENNEDY—Jack, Denys,” Willi said as the cab dove into the traffic around Trafalgar Square. “I’ve already explained how we met on the Queen Mary. And that you know Mrs. Playfair, of course.”

  Mrs. Playfair. He’d tried not to think of her that way.

  Diana’s husband had fine, long-fingered hands and an aquiline nose. His pale hair was slicked back like a parrot’s poll; there was something remote and indifferent about him that Jack did not immediately understand. He was staring through the cab window at the lights of Piccadilly as though he were alone.

  Jack perched on one of the jump seats facing the two men, his knees almost touching theirs. He felt like a piece of baggage or a child. The lurch of the cab as it rounded corners threw him off balance; he resisted clutching the ceiling strap. There was a glass partition between passengers and driver; Willi seemed to regard it as soundproof. Jack kept his voice low all the same.

  “Give me the Spider’s name, and I’ll get out at the next corner,” he suggested.

  “But I have a good deal to say to you,” Dobler objected, “and not much time in which to say it.”

  They were heading west now, toward Mayfair. Jack supposed it was preferable to the river but he was still uneasy. Playfair turned his head and studied him, expressionless; then his lips quirked. “You’ve scared him, Willi. He’s convinced all Germans wear jackboots.”

  “I’m a European first, Jack,” Dobler said, “and only then a German. That may sound fatuous to you—a distinction without a difference—but to me it represents an ideal.”

  “Deutschland über alles?” Jack suggested.

  “Not at all. Deutschland as part of a unified Europe with common aims. A Europe at peace with itself and the world. The United States could be our model.”

  “It’s not your boss’s.”

  “My boss,” Dobler said carefully, “is Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, head of the Abwehr—our military intelligence service—and his goals have little to do with Hitler’s.”

  “Even though he’s Hitler’s top spy?” Jack glanced at Playfair; none of this was news to the Foreign Office.

  “Particularly because he’s Hitler’s top spy.” Dobler reached into his jacket for his gold cigarette case; he offered it to Jack, who shook his head.

 
Playfair took a smoke and leaned over Dobler’s hand. The flame showed his skin dead white, his eyes a faint green.

  “I’m here in London for one reason,” Dobler continued. “To prevent war, if I can. That’s also why I met with your Franklin Roosevelt in New York three weeks ago.” He snapped the lighter shut. “We spoke the day after your conversation in the Pullman beneath the Waldorf-Astoria, and then again, later, at the White House. He is a charming fellow, is he not? One has the constant impression of a sheathed sword.”

  The cab pulled up suddenly before a town house facing Cavendish Square: tall windows, swagged draperies, box topiary in tubs beside the door.

  “This is where I leave you,” Playfair said courteously, and extended his hand. “Good hunting.”

  Jack’s eyes followed him as he got out of the cab and sauntered up the flagged walk: indolent, faintly theatrical, one hand in his trouser pocket. The odd figure went perfectly with the stage set of the house; but where did Diana fit? What role was she playing?

  * * *

  “YOU REALLY DON’T WANT TO TELL ME the Spider’s name, do you?” Jack said as the cab entered Hyde Park and slowed to a crawl.

  “Hans Obst,” Dobler said indifferently. “His name is Hans Obst. He’s thirty-three years old, five feet eleven inches tall, two hundred and twenty pounds, and a native of Munich. He has no family—the rumor is that he murdered his father—and works exclusively for Reinhard Heydrich, Hitler’s golden boy.”

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  Willi smiled bleakly. “Then you’re unusual. Heydrich cultivates secrecy. He trained under my boss, Wilhelm Canaris, before he was cashiered from the navy. Now he could have Canaris’s head and the Abwehr, too.”

  Jack frowned. “That’s a lot of power. How’d he get it?”

  “By killing people,” Dobler said, “although he’d probably call it liquidating threats to the Reich. He runs the Gestapo, Jack, among other things. Obst is one of Heydrich’s freelancers. The kind who kicks down doors in the night.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Willi?”